"It's time we talk to Mr. Mycroft Holmes," Irene declared the next morning at breakfast, eager to get to work after a day of unpacking and settling into our new flat. "In the absence of Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself, his past must be our key to his present."

"What reason will Victoria and Albert Drebber have for visiting Mr. Holmes the elder?" I asked.

"They won't. He will instead be interviewed by Messrs Nathaniel Powell and Theodore Clapham, reporters for a little known magazine, Accounts of Fact and Fiction."


For a haven of recluses, the Diogenes Club had none of the austerity of the monastery. The walls and furniture were all rich wood carved into ornate patterns and every surface was covered in plush material that was luxurious to the touch and absorbed any noise that dared trespass. It was like a silent maze, full of little nooks where men sat reading or lost in meditation, all in their own little worlds.

Even though we had been told we could talk in the Stranger's Room - a small study separated from the rest of the club for that very purpose - the whole place had the feeling of a library that demanded a contemplative silence, so we exchanged not a word as we waited for Mr. Mycroft Holmes. We were both dressed in the simple clothes of newspaper men. Irene had taken on the guise of a young man to make use of her feminine features while I, thanks to her efforts, appeared significantly aged with greying hair.

After a reasonable wait, we were joined by a large, stout man. At first, I feared he must have been some other member of the club who wished to use the room, so different he appeared from the vivid descriptions I had read of his famous younger brother, but I glimpsed a keen glint in his pale grey eyes, and he had a far-away, introspective look that gave him an air of great philosophical intelligence; all-knowing, but utterly detached from the world.

Most of this I noticed later, as I hastily stood to greet him. "Mr. Mycroft Holmes, is it?" I said with an outstretched hand.

He did not take it, but instead gave me an appraising nod, as though torn between boredom and amusement. "What brings you here?"

"My name is Theodore Powell, this is my colleague, Mr. Nathaniel Clapham." The words came tumbling out, but somehow I managed to make a coherent sentence out of it.

Irene jumped to her feet at the mention of her supposed name and stood at attention, her foot tapping nervously. An instant too late, I realised I had mixed up our pseudonyms, but it was too late to fix it; the show had to go on.

"We're reporters," I explained, forcing myself to speak a little slower, "with Accounts of Fact and Fiction - it's a magazine, you probably haven't heard of it, it's not too well known."

Mr. Holmes the elder gave a slight smile and mercifully cut me off, "Do take a seat, make yourselves comfortable."

He seated himself in the largest winged armchair, and Mr. Clapham and I followed suit, hastily resuming our seats.

"Now, what brings a pair of reporters to the Diogenes Club?" he asked, with some hint of condescension in his tone.

I took in a deep breath and continued, "We are following up on Dr. Watson's latest publication, 'A Scandal in Bohemia.' Mr. Holmes the younger, we are aware, is away in France, but we were hoping that as his brother, you could give us some insight into his relationship with Miss Irene Adler."

"You must have done quite a bit of research to find me."

"With all due respect," Mr. Clapham spoke up, "we are reporters, sir."

"Yes, of course. As for Miss Adler, I know only as much as the reading public; there is little else to know." He turned to Mr. Clapham. "You of all people should be well aware of that."

"Why I never!" Mr. Clapham exclaimed, utterly taken aback. "How do you reckon that?"

"Miss Adler, disguises can be fun - you and my brother both have a penchant for them - but do not take me for a fool."

I glanced over at my companion and in an instant her features had transformed from that of the nervous Mr. Clapham to the confident Irene that I knew so well. Even without a change in costume, the transformation was visible.

"It's Mrs. Norton, thank you," she said.

"My apologies. And I take it this is your forgotten husband, Mr. Norton."

"Mr. Godfrey Norton at your service," I said.

"I recommend you keep your legal practice, acting is not your calling," he said to me, not unkindly.

"No, it is not," I admitted.

Mr. Holmes then turned to Irene. "And the famed Mrs. Irene Norton, we meet at last. You are as remarkable as I have heard, though I fear your preparations for this interview appear to have been somewhat lacking."

"I'm flattered," she said. "You have little reputation to speak of. One does not expect there to be another unknown Mr. Sherlock Holmes, brother or none."

"His famed deduction is a mere hobby for me. Though we have agreed that I am the superior mind by seven years."

"And more modest, too."

"Perhaps," he said, apparently indifferent to the description. "Now, what brings such an illustrious figure back to London, asking about her own relationship with Sherlock Holmes? And in such a hurry, at that."

Irene shrugged. "You might call it curiosity about his true inclinations."

"Whose curiosity? I presume not merely your own."

"If there was another, I would hardly be in a position to tell."

"Perhaps we may come to an arrangement; you wish to know about my brother and you have piqued my curiosity about your enigmatic employer."

"I fear I have nothing to exchange."

Mr. Holmes peered at Irene. I was struck by the surprising intensity in his pale gaze, which appeared to see straight through her.

"That is a pity," he said at last. "If you would kindly inform me when you have acquired more insight into your employer's designs."

Irene took her time considering the offer. "According to him, he is only a middle-man, who is frequently sought out by his myriad acquaintances on account of his abilities and connections, not altogether unlike Mr. Holmes himself."

Mr. Holmes the elder appeared to accept the token of insight, and offered in return, "You need not come to me to learn of his disinterest in womankind, in which we are alike." He gave her a pointed look, as though challenging her to make something of it. "To what ends have you been employed?"

"That's the question, isn't it? We were instructed to inquire after Mr. Holmes's 'relations', nothing more. Is it true then that he scorns the softer passions entirely?"

"That appears to be Dr. Watson's conclusion. I am certain you, along with the rest of the world, are already aware of my brother's close friendship with the good doctor; a perfectly pleasant gentleman whom I have had the pleasure to meet on a small number of occasions."

Irene jumped on the opportunity, very much like the reporter whose guise she still wore. "How close, would you say?"

"It should tell you something that Dr. Watson was introduced to me at all. Your employer expressed a particular interest in him?"

"He suggested that we might be able to glean something of interest from the doctor. What do you make of him?"

"He is an ordinary English gentleman. My brother would not say so, but that is the truth. He is of average intelligence, but well educated and efficient under pressure; his military training still serves him well. He is not particularly patient, as many would suggest, he merely avoids conflict and instead allows discontentment to build up until he can no longer bring himself to contain it."

"What does your brother see in him?"

"A rare and valued friend."

"But why Dr. Watson?"

"Perhaps it is merely because he is there. He does see the best in my brother, as few others do, maybe it is something for Sherlock to aspire to. Was there anyone else your employer particularly indicated?"

"It's thanks to him that we knew to seek you out, and he arranged our lodgings at 221 Baker Street so that we might speak with Mrs. Hudson."

Mr. Holmes's great brow creased in concern.

"You have some suspicion as to the nature of our employment?" Irene insisted.

Mr. Holmes dismissed the question with a shake of his head. "What else do you want to know?"

I could see Irene's dissatisfaction at the response, but she accepted it. "You have said that now there is only Dr. Watson, but has there been anyone of note in your brother's past?"

"I have always wondered about Mr. Victor Trevor. He was, to my knowledge, the only friend Sherlock had at university, but I regret that I was never able to make his acquaintance. Mr. Trevor currently lives in Terai, in India, where I hear he is involved in tea planting."

"Under what circumstances did they part?"

"If I recall, Mr. Trevor was heartbroken after the death of his father. Though my brother solved the case, it was little consolation."

"Are they still in communication?"

"I expect not. This is the last address I have for him." He handed me a slip of paper on which he scrawled it. "I would be interested to hear what you learn of him."

"Has there been anyone else?"

"Not of significance. As you have no doubt heard from others before me, Sherlock is little more sociable than I am, with only the two noteworthy exceptions." After a moment's thought, Mr. Holmes asked in turn, "What is your employer's walk of life? A gentleman, I presume, perhaps an academic?"

Irene was surprised as I by the suggestion. "A professor? No, a distinguished old military man." And then she asked, "Mr. Holmes the younger has found no new companion since Dr. Watson's marriage?"

"No, making friends does not come so easily to him."

Finally, Irene demanded, "You plainly have some guess as to our employer, what is it?"

"It is only surmise and speculation; I merely theorise, it is my brother who has the energy to confirm or refute. But if I am correct, then you would do well to be careful. If there is anything which you require, you know where I may be found."

Irene huffed in frustration and finally stood. "Thank you for your assistance."

Mr. Holmes followed and shook her hand. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I only regret that it is not under happier circumstances."

Irene peered at Mr. Holmes for another long moment, as though trying to draw the truth out of him with her gaze, and then she turned to the door and we went on our way.

Once we were safely out on the street and permitted to speak freely once more, Irene remarked, "Mr. Holmes the elder plainly believes that we will uncover nothing of substance."

"Do you mean to say he was lying in order to learn about our purpose?" I asked.

"No, I do not think he has so little confidence in the abilities of others, but he must be certain nothing will come of it."

"His vision may be clouded by brotherly feeling," I said, though something about the man made it hard to believe.

Irene shook her head in accordance with my thoughts. "He either has good reason to believe that there's nothing to it, or knows that in any case there is no real danger to his brother from it, otherwise, he would have simply deterred us from the investigation altogether. But he does believe there is something serious afoot. What I want to know is who he thinks we're working for!"

"Not the papers."

"No," Irene agreed with a smile, "nor I think a blackmailer, nor the law, nor must he believe there is any serious threat of revenge. Any more personal motivation seems an unlikely excuse to bring us all the way across the pond for such an investigation, but I suppose it is remarkable what love may drive a man to do."

I could but agree, knowing what countless men had done, myself included, for Irene's favours.